


Hush

by starraya



Category: Holby City
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-23
Updated: 2016-09-23
Packaged: 2018-08-14 02:02:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7994569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starraya/pseuds/starraya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Or five times Bernie watches Serena sleep. And one time she doesn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hush

 

1.

 

The first time isn't a first time at all.

 

Today has been a day Bernie Wolfe wouldn't even wish on her husband the second after his lawyer unceremoniously thrust the divorce papers in her hands in the middle of her place of work, and promptly departed.

 

RTC. Three lives to save. One parent and their two children. The crash killed the other driver on impact. No seatbelt. Messy. Instantaneous, though.

 

Lucky. The word flashes in Bernie's mind, even if many might dispute it. But many haven't battled the day she's had. Many haven't operated on a father and son within the space of three hours. Many haven't admitted twins into AAU and found that whilst one had broken bones and bruises it was nothing compared to his twin's critical injuries. Resuscitation had worked the first, the second, the third time, but there hadn't been a moment where it wasn't touch and go. The other twin was stable, unconscious and oblivious to the fact that metres away his brother was fighting for his life.

 

The father - broken ribs, dislocated shoulder, particularly nasty head injury - was conscious. Nothing - or no one in Holby - could keep him in his bed. And they tried. Again and again he'd chase up anyone in blue scrubs and ask questions they couldn't properly answer. What did that mean? He voice would rise higher and higher. Fletch warned him to calm down and said that they were doing everything possible in theatre right now.

_What does that mean?_

 

It meant that at three minutes past ten Bernie's eyes rose to meet Serena's across the operating table, and Serena gave a small nod. And at three minutes past ten they agreed time of death. It meant that they had to decide who would tell him.

 

One drunken alcoholic on the road during rush hour. One father doing the school run. One child who wouldn't see their ninth birthday, or any after that.

 

The father limply sagged back into bed.

 

Denial came first. Then a rambling, almost cheery anecdote. They had been fighting, his sons, and refused to sit together. Wouldn't get in the car for school if one wasn't sat in the front, other in the back. And now . . . his voice trailed off. He lay back in bed.

 

Serena had told him that any minute now his son was going to wake up, and he needed his father beside him. The father nodded, feebly got to his feet and readied himself for the worst conversation of his life.

 

In the hours since neither Bernie or Serena have mentioned the family. Partly because they've hardly had time to exchange three words outside out of theatre and partly because there is no need to. They are both thinking the same. A child they couldn't save. A needless waste of life.

 

But you must try not to let your thought linger too much on any patient, however hard losing them might be. Pondering on their fate won't change it. In fact, in the later months, Serena says exactly that to Bernie about a patient.

 

At the end of her shift Bernie finds Serena in their office, sitting behind her desk. Her hands are folded neatly in her lap, but her head rests back and her eyes are closed. Her body is completely still, apart from the rise and fall of her chest. Not that Bernie's eyes focus there. Not that she gives a second thought to the orange shirt hung on the back of Serena's chair. It's just her eyes can't help but run over the faint constellations of freckles on Serena's exposed upper arms in the short-sleeved black top she wears underneath. It's just that she can't help but think of her fingertips mapping them out.

 

But thoughts like that do no good.

 

In an effort to not disturb the quiet of the office, Bernie closes the door carefully and pads softly over to her side of the office to her retrieve her bag and coat.

 

"So you took my advice, after all?" Bernie almost jumps at the sound, jerking her head around to see that Serena's eyes are still closed. Bernie's face is a picture of confusion. Serena doesn't have to open her eyes to know that, but she does, and motions to the floor to elaborate.

"You're wearing louder shoes."

 

"Ah."

 

"Did no one ever teach you that it's terribly bad form to creep up and try to catch people off-guard?"

 

No, Bernie thinks, and the army taught her the exact opposite. Funny though, that smooth quip she thinks up flies away from her mind the moment Serena raises an eyebrow in playful accusation at her, and under the intensity of Serena's expectant gaze Bernie finds any explanation she might offer unravelling. "I wasn't - I'm not - I thought you were-"

 

"Hush," Serena waves her hand, "I'm pulling your leg. I wasn't - anyway, I'm too tired to sleep." Bernie knows exactly what she means. Knows the perfect remedy.

 

"Albies?"

 

Serena springs up from her chair, grinning. "I thought you'd never ask."

 

-

 

By the time the bar closes neither of them are in a state to drive home. They catch a taxi together. Bernie finds herself watching the passing headlights of cars for far too long through the window, unable to stop her thoughts drifting back to this morning's RTC. When she turns back to a suspiciously quiet Serena, a smile - one she couldn't stop if she tried - quirks on Bernie's lips.

 

Her fellow passenger is fast asleep. Fast - snoring softly, head tilted to one side, features utterly unguarded - asleep.

 

Bernie's eyes immediately flick down. There's just something so strange about Serena Campbell _asleep._ All day they've been on their feet, watchful and ready for every possibility. Hearts to fail. Internal bleeding to continue from an unknown source. Stable patients to rapidly deteriorate, and fathers to be ushered outside the room, left with the terrible fear that they might lose both their children the same day.

 

No time to drop your guard, be any less than completely professional or at your absolute best. No time to catch your breath.

 

It's no surprise Serena's exhausted. Bernie herself has not plan but to clamber into bed and curl under her duvet the second she enters her flat. But until she gets there, casting glances, ridiculously shy and short ones, at a sleeping Serena Campbell isn't so bad a way to pass the time.

 

Serena's house is closer than Bernie's place, and Bernie must reluctantly try to rouse her when the cab pulls up there. A soft 'Serena'. A gentle tap of her shoulder.

 

"Mmmm." Serena shifts in her seat. Her eyes flutter open. She blinks a few times, before her eyes find out Bernie's amid the dim light of the back of the cab. "Bernie."

 

Her voice is barely a murmur and drowsy with sleep, but Bernie finds it thick and luscious and intoxicating.

 

All day long the sounds of the sick and dying have filled Bernie's ears. The shrill ring of ambulances. The beep of BPs dropping. In the tight, pressurized quiet of theatre, every sound is amplified, every scrape of scalpels, every rustle of scrubs, even the rush of blood in her own ears. She ignores them of course, focuses on the task in hand. Literally. But there's no escaping the fact it's an artificial calm, and whenever her voice broke it to issue the usual and necessary terse, but polite orders, her words sounded louder than they were. Too harsh. Too brittle with frustration as she and Serena struggled to save an innocent child’s life.

 

"I'm not normally that much of a sleepy drunk."

 

As Serena's voice fills the back of cab Bernie feels the last of the tension that has filled her bones all day seep away. Bernie focuses on nothing else but the sound, letting it encompass them both for a moment before replying.

 

"Oh, I know." A smile creases the corners of Bernie's eyes; a knowing chuckle escapes her lips.

 

"And what's that meant to mean?"

 

"I think you know _exactly_ what it means."

 

Serena scoffs. She pulls open the cab door and steps out, turning back to face Bernie before making her way up to her house.

 

"See you Monday for another day at the grindstone?"

 

"Count on it."

 

Through the cab window Bernie's eyes track Serena as she walks up to and enters her house.

 

Sometimes eyes linger whether you want them to or not. Thoughts linger. On what could have been, or what might be.

 

Like that of waking up next to a certain surgeon in bed, of watching them wake up, as sunlight filters around the edges of the curtains and into the room, basking the walls in a warm glow.

 

Of hearing the honeyed cadence of a certain surgeon's voice as she wakes, Bernie's name on her lips.

 

2.

 

Bernie shifts from one foot to the other on Serena's doorstep. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. Knocks.

 

Why on earth did she think this was a good idea?

 

She hears footsteps near the door.

 

_Why?_

 

"Sorry to turn up unannounced, but - oh, Jason." The words rush out her mouth so quickly that when Jason appears in the doorway Bernie finds herself searching for more. And coming up with nothing.

 

"You look surprised. Auntie Serena has told you I live here."

 

"Yes, of course, it's just – is she in? Is she home?"

 

"When she got back from work she went to her room and – " Jason consults his watch, "hasn't come out for two hours and fourteen minutes. She told me she thinks she has the flu, but she hasn't coughed once, doesn't have a temperature or sound like she has a sore throat."

 

"Well, not all illnesses are immediately visible Jason."

 

"She was crying though. She thought I couldn't see, but I did. And I made her some soup because that's what ill people eat, but she hasn't eaten it."

 

"And she's still in her room?"

 

"Yes. I just told you she's hasn't come down stairs since she came back."

 

"Right." Realising she keeps flexing her fingers and fidgeting Bernie shoves her hands into her coat pockets.

 

"If you want to talk to her I could call her down for you?"

 

"No, no . . . erm."

 

"Do you want to come inside?"

 

"Okay," Bernie nods and follows Jason inside. She moves quietly, almost stealthily, as if she is intruding somewhere she shouldn't be. As if she is creeping up on someone and trying to catch them off guard to use Serena's words.

 

It's ridiculous, but Bernie knows why she's doing it.

 

She doesn't want to alert Serena to her presence just yet even though the moment Bernie's shift finished she left Holby and got in her car to drive straight here.

 

Even more ridiculously, Bernie still can't shake off the feeling that she shouldn't be here, that she's breaking and entering rather than accepting an invite into Serena's house.

 

But she's not breaking any laws, except perhaps her own.

 

She was the one who suggested that they keep it – even though she's less and less sure what _it_ is –confined to theatre.

 

And, in the past weeks, they've both done just that. Done it too efficiently, in fact.

 

Because before the kiss Bernie hadn't realised how much time they spent together out of theatre. She didn't realise they'd made a habit of having a chat in the office, filling out some leftover paperwork as Holby City winded down for the night. She didn't realise how many work breaks they'd shared together, sitting outside on a bench and sipping burning hot coffee. Companionable silence would envelope them as they savoured the brief relief from the chaos of AAU, as much-needed as the caffeine shooting through their systems. It's been a long time, Bernie thinks, since any silence between her and Serena has been comfortable.

 

And then there was Albies. She'd never noticed before how she and Serena always sat close together, even if most of the staff from AAU, Darwin and Keller combined were there too. She hadn't noticed before how much she looked forward to sharing a bottle at the end of a long, tiring week.

 

It wasn't just a yearning for the relaxed, jovial atmosphere of the local after hours spent deep in concentration at the operating table, or a fondness for its shabby, but familiar interior, or that the pub's monthly karaoke night, usually packed full of too many cheesy seventies and eighties love songs, was a guilty pleasure of hers.

 

It wasn't the promise of alcohol to loosen her weary limbs and warm her stomach.

 

No, Bernie knows now of a reason that overshadows all those.

 

Homesickness, someone had told Bernie when she first joined the army, isn't an attachment to a particular place, it's a yearning for the comfort of the familiar. Very likely something you took for granted.

 

Troublesome, messy crushes on your dyed-in-the-wool heterosexual friend aside, the bottom line was that she enjoyed Serena's company outside out of work and watching her as she let her hair down. Bernie enjoyed laughing and joking with her. Serena had the sharpest wit of anyone Bernie had met. Her sarcasm was in turns dry, no-nonsense, self-effacing, and one of her most endearing traits. When was the last time she heard Serena laugh, properly laugh?

 

That thought jolts Bernie back to the present and reminds her why she's here in the first place. Why she's here in Serena's house. Unconsciously or not, they've been avoiding each other out of theatre, and barely held a conversation that wasn't about Fletch's improving condition or a patient's treatment, or worse an argument over the best way to proceed with an operation. Bernie knows their friendship has irrevocably altered, and will never bounce back to what it was once, but beneath the blurred lines is one undeniable fact: Serena is still her friend. They are still a team.

 

AAU comrades, Bernie thinks with an inward smile, and you have your comrade's back, no matter what.

 

Jason offers her tea. Coffee, please, Bernie asks. Have you got decaf? No, Auntie Serena believes decaf coffee isn't coffee at all. Just a glass of water, then, please.

 

With Jason in the kitchen Bernie is left hovering awkwardly in the living room. For want of something to do with her hands Bernie fishes out her phone from her pocket and taps it absentmindedly against her lips.

 

What now? Bound up the stairs and pop her head around Serena's bedroom door? Call up to her, and say what? I know you can cut the air with a knife anytime we're within five metres of each other, and we do our damned best not to share that proximity any longer than professionally necessary, but I'm here right now in your house, and I'm not leaving until we've had a proper face to face conversation.

 

Bernie looks down at her phone, tilts it slightly back in her hand and stares at her reflection. Troubled eyes stare back at her.

 

Opening her phone and scrolling down to Serena's number Bernie vows that she's not leaving until she knows what wrong.

 

And she knows it's not anything to do with her, or _us_ as she suggested earlier. After Serena had practically ran out the theatre – the operation was all but done, bleeding stopped, recovery looking good – and left Bernie to finish it off, Bernie had found her perched on the same stairs they'd sat together on weeks ago the day Jason's girlfriend was rushed into AAU and Bernie had reassured a stressed Serena that none of it was her fault.

 

Serena eyes were fixed on the ground. It was raining hard. Her scrubs were bare-sleeved, but Serena seemed not to care of the water that lashed down. Her top was already half-soaked, her hair no doubt dripping. And she remained there frozen, numb, not even looking up when Bernie took care not to creep up and announce her presence with words that tried too hard to be casual.

 

"I tried our office, scoured the wards, Pulses, the benches out front, even the store room. No one knew where you'd disappeared off to. Your car's still here so short of you trekking to Albies this was the last place I could think of."

 

"It's lovely to know my colleagues think I'd abandon them and rush to the bottle at the drop of a hat."

 

"Serena, I didn't say that," Bernie replied, voice soft as melted butter. She edged closer to the stairway railings, but hesitated to sit beside Serena. "Is it this morning? I know he reminded you of Jason. It's always hard when – “

 

Serena takes a sharp breath, before raising her eyes to Bernie's. "If I fell to pieces every time we lost someone I wouldn't be a very good Doctor, now would I?"

 

"That doesn't mean that it isn't alright to sometimes . . . admit that certain cases are more difficult than others. They can hit close to home."

 

"It isn't that."

 

"Look if today, what happened, this now, has got anything to do with something I've done, or if it's about us . . .  Perhaps I was wrong in thinking we still made a good team in theatre, but –“

 

"Don't flatter yourself. Not every mid-life crisis I have is to do with you, you know. And I thought we'd agreed, there is no us."

 

"Well, I was under the illusion that we were . . . at least still . . . friends, but -"

 

"I think we've rather passed the whole first port of call thing. Ship's sailed, and all that."

 

"It that's how you feel, then. . ." When Serena didn't contradict her Bernie pivoted on foot and headed back inside the hospital. Passing through the door she'd came through she heard sobs fill the air, the kind that can only be stifled for so long. Serena's. Bernie was just about to turn back around when her pager beeped. By the time she made it out of theatre Serena had left hours ago. Said she was feeling unwell, said she might be coming down with the flu, Fletch relayed to Bernie when she asked after her.

 

Bernie knows there's more to it. She taps Serena's number on her phone.

 

"Bernie, if you're looking for round two -"

 

"No, no. That not's why – I'm actually – Jason invited – I'm in your living room,” Bernie stammers.

 

"What?"

 

"I didn't want to leave things like we did."

 

"I see, you wanted to bring it to my doorstep and have it out in hand-to-hand combat instead?"

 

"Why? Are you offering?"

 

Great, Bernie inwardly chastises, use flirting to paper over the cracks. In their friendship. In her voice.

 

"Serena, I'm worried about you. Jason's worried about you. He doesn't think your ill. And I –“

 

"What do you think? _Pray tell_?" Serena's voice is tired and small and strained. Not completely devoid of annoyance either, but sometimes fire shouldn't be fought with fire. Bernie remembers that anger is only ever a secondary emotion. There is always something underneath it. And if she has to dig, she will, but softly, cautiously.

 

"I think . . . I think that more's to it. I think you're hiding something. I know that's a bit rich coming from me. And I know I'm probably the last person you want to talk to right now, but –“

 

"Come upstairs." The line goes dead.

 

Swallowing thickly, Bernie smooths down her coat. When she reaches the bottom of the stairs she looks up to see Serena stood at the top. "Thought I'd meet you halfway," she says.

 

And that is how Bernie Wolfe finds herself in Serena's Campbell's house, finds herself stood opposite her, dangerously close to her on the landing, the fall of stairs a mere couple of metres away, and how she finds herself led by Serena Campbell into her bedroom – a place Bernie's only ever seen before in her dreams.

 

There's a half-drunk bottle of wine on the bedroom side that Bernie guesses wasn't there this morning. Also, a box of tissues. There is a bowl of uneaten soup balanced neatly on a tray on top of a chest of drawers.

 

Serena watches Bernie's eyes scan around. "I really wasn't expecting visitors," she laughs thinly. Awkwardly, she wraps her arms around her sides. She is wearing black leggings and an oversized maroon jumper. Bernie can't help but marvel over how the rich colour brings out the warmth in Serena's eyes. Her face is bare of make-up. She splashed it off a long time ago, along with tracks of mascara tear stains.

 

"If you think this is messy, you should come and see my room."

 

Bernie inwardly cringes. Did she just really invite Serena to her bedroom? Oh God.

 

Fortunately, Serena doesn't appear to have picked up on the minefield of double-entendre in Bernie's words. A sure-marker something's wrong. Unresponsive, Serena sinks down on the edge of her bed, eyes glazed and unfocused. Instinctively Bernie goes to join her side, before realising that sharing a bed with Serena Campbell - even in any form, no matter how platonically, no matter how her genuine her intention of paying Serena an impromptu call was for emotional comfort and only that - is perhaps a bit too bold. To her relief there is a small seat tucked under a vanity table and she takes that.

 

Arranged tidily on the table behind her are Serena's lotions and perfumes and Bernie's sense are immediately flooded with Serena's scent. Her mind by visions of Serena sitting exactly where she is, rubbing moisturiser into her skin just before bed or smoothing down her hair one final down before leaving in the morning, or in the evening, before a date perhaps, dabbing perfume at her neck and wrists, sweeping powder across her cheeks, carefully applying a coat of mascara, before parting her lips and slowly, carefully –

 

Bernie hears Serena choke back a sob, and instantly feels atrocious for letting her brain indulge –however briefly – in such fantasies whilst Serena is sat inches away, clearly hurting and struggling to put that pain into words.

 

"You were right. This morning . . . that lad – he reminded me of Jason. He was _so_ vulnerable and he had no one on his side. I know too well how much of a struggle it can be to cope with someone who has those kind of needs, but his mother, his family they all abandoned him. They all gave up on him."

 

"But we didn't. We kept fighting for as long as possible."

 

"But one must always remain pragmatic." Serena says, pre-empting Bernie's next words.

 

"Yes." For a moment silence drifts in between them. Bernie can tell by the way Serena twists her hands in her lap that there is something else as well troubling her. She inhales deeply, one hand rising to play with her necklace.

 

"It was the anniversary of my mother's death last week. Somehow, foolishly, I thought it wouldn't affect me as much it. I went through some old photos, relived some rather traumatic memories and drank a large, ill-advised quantity of Shiraz. Thought that would be that. Thought I could allocate myself one day to have a good old cry and then resume my life as normal. But I've let it hang over me all week. I expect Jason's become annoyed with my moping. I don't know why I haven't simply explained what's up. It would have saved a lot of bickering."

 

"Grief's a messy thing. There's no right way to do it."

 

"I couldn't even face up to it. I pretended I was fine – just like my feelings about this morning – and now I've let everything get on top of me again." Serena stares down at her hands in her lap, almost as if she expects them to disappear. "Bernie, I'm afraid I'm rather unravelling at the seams."

 

Unable to just sit and watch her best friend crumble in front of her eyes Bernie quickly takes a seat by Serena's side. She finds herself clasping Serena's trembling hands within her own.

 

"Luckily," she says, "I happen to know this _amazing_ trauma surgeon whose job it is to stitch people up."

 

Not breaking eye contact with Serena Bernie brings Serena right hand to her mouth and presses her lips softly down. For some reason it feels like the most natural thing to do. Neither of them question it, or how Serena goes to place her left hand over Bernie's hands, still enclosing her right one when Bernie sets it down between them. Neither of them pull away. Serena's thumb traces circles on Bernie's hand.

 

 _Kiss it better._ The words enter Bernie's mind, unbidden. The way Serena eyes darken and flicker down to her lips, the way she leans closer in to her, but pauses, a breath shuddering from her lips, almost convinces Bernie those three words are much a soundless request on Serena's part as they are a half-fulfilled wish on hers.

 

"How long are you two going to be up there?" Jason's impatient shout from downstairs brings them back to senses. "Pointless is on in three minutes."

 

It is Bernie who slowly withdraws her hands from Serena's and stands up. As much as she wants to taste if Serena's lips feel as sweet and soft as they did last time she's thankful for the interruption. Serena's emotions are in tumult and Bernie doesn't want to complicate her feelings anymore.

 

"I think we'd better go downstairs." Serena doesn't instantly go to move, but when Bernie offers a hand to help her up, she takes it. Bernie knows it's an agreement that stopping when they did was a good thing. On her feet Serena gives Bernie a small, thankful smile and Bernie squeezes her hand.

 

"Stay a little while?" Serena lets go of Bernie's hand and steps towards the door.

 

"Sure."

 

-

 

Joining in with an enthusiastic Jason in guessing the answers on the TV screen, Bernie finds herself getting more and more competitive. From the armchair in the corner of the room Serena silently watches on, a long-term sufferer of the endless litany of daytime quiz and dinner-time game shows Jason enjoys, happy to be no more than a spectator. When Bernie does disastrously at the music round she hears a chuckle from across the room and catches Serena's eye. They share a smile. _Thank you this, for coming here, for seeing if I was alright, thank you for staying._

 

_Your very welcome._

 

The next time she looks in Serena's direction Bernie already knows the sight she'll find from the snores filling the room. Legs curled in, feet tucked under them, chin resting on an arm propped up on the side of the chair, eyes closed, Serena dozes. Sleep as much needed as it's earned, Bernie thinks. She loses concentration with shouting out answers. The ones she half-heartedly gives are the first thing that comes into her head and therefore the most obvious ones. Jason encourages her to focus more.

 

10 minutes later the programme ends. Bernie has undoubtedly lost whatever contest she was in with Jason. He helpfully supplies her with a reason why. "You're very alike, you and Auntie Serena. You stare almost much as she does."

 

"Sorry?" Attention pre-occupied Bernie hears Jason's word but doesn't absorb them. When she does finally tear her eyes away from Serena she finds Jason's eyes fixed as intensely on her.

 

"You didn't do very well because you were too busy staring at Auntie Serena."

 

Bernie can hardly protest.

 

3.

 

Bernie has never been a big believer in fate. When you're in the midst of a warzone, when each day you battle death you can't put afford to put your trust in anyone but yourself. And you must have absolute faith in yourself. Keep a cool head and a steady hand. You must be unflappable. Ready to follow orders, ready to reel them off. Ready for an influx of broken bodies to fix, ready for one of them to be your friend, ready to change tactics when bleeding doesn't stop, swiftly, without fuss. Confidence, reserve, accuracy. Not really fate's most notable characteristics.

 

She assesses dangers. Calculates risks. Plans back-up options. Judges and treats accordingly.

 

She's a surgeon. She doesn't do false moves or narrow gambles or blind hope.

 

That's not to say she hasn't uttered a prayer in her life – she's uttered many, sometimes not knowing who she's directing them to – or to say that she's hasn't done her fair share of wishful thinking when she's had all the odds stacked against her favour.

 

She hadn't been thinking when she kissed Serena all those weeks ago on the theatre floor, hadn't been calculating or assessing, not even really hoping that she'd kiss her back. Something Bernie hadn't betted on once, Serena crushing her lips on hers, grabbing her arm, pulling her closer as their mouths find a rhythm, as their hands found homes in each other's hair.

 

It had felt too natural, too right for Bernie to write it off as a mistake. But she felt it was all happening too fast and headlong and she needed to put distance between them. _Confine it to theatre._ Only when you step back can you accurately survey your circumstances, and decide how to proceed. That's why – she told herself – she took the secondment in Ukraine, for thinking space, hundreds of miles of thinking space. It was fear, really, that sent her running. Fear she was rushing into something like she had with Alex without thinking, something heady and intoxicating, but blinding as well. She remembers her and Alex's relationship, how passionate and intense it was, their hands grasping and clutching desperately at each other, unaware of the things they were knocking over in the process, of things they were shattering, of the people they were hurting.

 

Bernie doesn't believe in fate, but as she lies next to a sleeping Serena it's hard not to think that in some far off corner of the universe some stars have aligned, just for them. Sunlight isn't streaming through the curtains, there's no birdsong outside; the heavy rain that drums incessantly on the roof and the wind that howls through the trees, stripping them of their last, limp brown leaves, drowns it out. Bernie isn't exactly basking in a warm glow – certainly not a literal one – as someone has, during sleep, gradually tugged the duvet away from Bernie and effectively cocooned themselves in it. Bernie's naked back is exposed to the cool dawn air, and it's only a firm grip on the travelling duvet that stops her front from being too.

 

But the shiver that runs down her spine as she contemplates the woman next to her has nothing to do with coldness and everything to do with the night before. Lips practically growling her name, nails raking her back, hands spearing her hair, gripping tighter and tighter.

 

Bernie remembers how her had hands mapped every freckle, every stretchmark, every scar, how they traced every arch and curve and dip of Serena’s body, before she replaced them with her mouth.

 

She remembers the jump of Serena's pulse when she pressed her lips just above her collarbone, the small gasp of air when Bernie's kisses trailed down her stomach, the tremors that ran through her body when afterwards Bernie held her close. She remembers the slight tremble in Serena's hand when it slipped across Bernie's own skin, coming eventually to rest between her legs. A warmth floods through Bernie in spite of the room's cool temperature.

 

A lazy smile graces her lips as she stretches out along Serena's bed, luxuriating in the feel of something scarily close to pure contentment. After months of mounting tension everything seems to have balanced out into equilibrium. Aligned, if a little imperfectly.

 

In her hazy splendour Bernie unknowingly slackened her hold on her half of the duvet. And now it's gone, stolen by a now extremely _snug_ looking Serena Campbell.

 

Knowing she won't find one Bernie casts her eye around the room for a magically convenient blanket. What she spots is Serena's shirt, bright and unmistakable, tossed on the floor a few metres away. _All's fair in love and war_ , Bernie thinks. Without one jot of guilt she swoops down and requisitions the item. She is just slipping her arms into it when Serena speaks and makes Bernie all but jump out her skin. "And what on earth do you think you're doing with _that_?"

 

Buttoning up the shirt as she perches on the edge of the bed Bernie tilts her head around to look back at Serena. The duvet is still wound around her, but she has turned on her side to face Bernie and propped her elbow up so she can rest her head in her hand. And she wears a practically _sinful_ smile.

 

"Well don't you look like the cat that's got the cream?"

 

"You're changing the subject," Serena levels, not missing a beat.

 

"I'm cold. _Someone_ stole the duvet of me." She gives Serena a pointed look and is rewarded with a rather sheepish one.

 

"Ah." Serena loosens the duvet around her. "It would seem I'm not used to sharing."

 

"Well," Bernie turns around, climbing back onto the bed so she kneels in front of Serena, "it's never too late to try and learn."

 

“Is that an order, Miss Wolfe?”

 

“Do you want it to be?”

 

Serena raises herself up on her arm and leans in to slid a fingertip between Bernie's clavicles. Bernie only bothered to button up the first few buttons of the shirt. It was good foresight she thinks as Serena's hand moves further down and her voice drops low.

 

 "Suits you," she husks, her hands fingering the buttons of the stolen shirt and beginning to slowly, torturously to undo them, giving the opposite idea altogether. "But, it's still _mine_."

 

 -

 

They're lying side by side, Serena on her front and Bernie turned towards her, drawing figures of eight into Serena's back. Something she's so entranced in doing that she doesn't think to question Serena's silence as anymore more than the same sense of equanimity she feels. She only slows her fingertips when she hears her name, but they halt abruptly when she sees the tears glistening in Serena's eyes.

 

"Serena?"

 

"I'm sorry . . . I . . ."

 

Bernie's palm has flattened on her back and Serena shifts away from it until she is sitting on the edge of the bed, facing away from Bernie, arms coming to hug around her middle.

 

"Serena? What's wrong? Have I done something to upset you?"

 

"No, no," Serena dismisses the idea at once, reaching out to grasp her dressing chair on the chair beside her bed. "It's not . . . it doesn't . . . "

 

"Not having regrets?"

 

"No, no," Serena shakes her head, wrapping the dressing gown around her and tying the sash tightly.

 

"It was too soon?"

 

"If we'd waited any longer dear I fear I might have day simply combusted into flames." Serena glances back at Bernie and takes a deep, shuddering breath. Bernie's hand reaches out for hers, but she doesn't see it and stands up. Without thinking she drifts over to the window, her hands hover in front of the curtains, restless to do something other than just stupidly, pathetically _shake_ , but she's not quite ready to pull apart the fabric and let the light of the morning, however much greyed by the storm she hears outside, flow into the room.

 

Behind her Bernie fumble for clothes, pulls them on haphazardly.

 

"That day I said I was ill. That day you came around mine I wasn't entirely truthful. You remember that boy we operated on, that boy without a family . . . well at some point, during the operation, after, it doesn't matter, you told me not to think about Jason, that he had friends and family that have his best interests at heart. That he has me." Serena hears Bernie come up behind her. Almost as if to brace herself for the conversation, to prove to herself that she's got to do this, that she promised herself, she yanks open the curtains. "I'd like to say that it was just losing the boy that had got to me, but I'm afraid I was more self-absorbed. All I could really think of was what you said."

 

Serena takes a steadying breath, presses her fingertips to the chilled pane of glass in front of her. "There's something I need to tell you, something I should have told you weeks ago. I didn't because I knew it would affect us." Serena's hand follows a raindrop as it slides down the window, her eyes fix there, not once looking properly at the washed-out scene outside, the black puddles on the pavement, the wavering branches of the trees, the dying light of the streetlights as the sky brightens by a fraction.

 

"I think . . . I didn't want you to pity me. I didn't want our relationship to be one of circumstance, one of comfort that you were in out of some sense of duty. I didn't want your sympathy. I wanted you. But I didn't want to rush things. I wanted to wait. I knew before Ukraine, but I let you go. You said you needed time, and I gave it to you and you came back for me." Serena swallows back a sob. Bernie;s arms enclose her waist and her head settles on Serena's shoulder.

 

"I am glad," Serena's eyes search Bernie's reflected ones in the window, "that we waited. I didn't want to lie to you. I didn't mean to do all this under false pretences."

 

"Serena?" Bernie's head is swimming, jumping to terrible conclusion after terrible conclusion as she struggles to make sense of Serena's words.

 

"You were wrong with what you said about Jason. At least, you might soon be." Serena turns around into Bernie's arms. "I hadn't long got the results back and I kept thinking about losing my own mum and what Elinor would go through, and I hadn't even properly thought about Jason, not until that day, until your words."

 

"Serena, I'm not losing you." Bernie's voice is hard, but her eyes prickle with tears as Serena finally tells her the truth about that day she ran from theatre. Bernie desperately tries to keep her head clear, but it becomes more and more difficult.

 

"Inoperable."

 

The breath rushes out of her. Inoperable. It's the only word her mind can focus on. Nothing else sinks in. _Inoperable._

 

One word and her whole world tilts on its axis and shatters.

 

4.

 

Bernie knows she would do it anyway. Whether rain was crashing down onto the pavement in buckets, or the sun lighting up an impossibly blue, clear sky, Bernie knows she would find whatever excuse she could to stay in bed.

 

Stay close to Serena.

 

On the days she doesn't have work Bernie learns quickly that there is a strict rule that Serena is not to be woken unless the rapture is upon them. Bernie is an extremely light sleeper and wakes habitually at half five and can't fall back to sleep, not for any want of trying. Seconds from waking she is alert and ready to go.

 

In the immediate days after Serena tells her the truth, Bernie won't leave Serena's side and go home. They quarrel, magnificently. It's still early in their relationship and Bernie, knowing Serena might need some space, offers to sleep on the sofa. Serena agrees, only to appear in the living room doorway one hour after they've both retired to bed, eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot. She doesn't speak, and neither does Bernie. Wordlessly Bernie wraps her arms around Serena and holds her close, before slipping her hands in Serena's. She never lets it go as she follows Serena upstairs. They fall asleep Serena's body curved against Bernie's, her back pressed against Bernie's front. Bernie's arm curls around Serena's waist, and just above her hip their hands rest together, fingers interlaced.

 

As tightly as Bernie holds on, by the morning, they have separated in sleep.

 

At half five in the morning Serena still sleeps soundly, and Bernie takes the opportunity to find solace in the quiet of the streets outside, emptied of traffic. She needs time to think everything through. It has all happened so fast. The world she knows is rapidly slipping like sand through her fingers.

 

On those days she scribbles Serena a note, saying she's gone for a run and will be back no later than half-seven.

 

On the fourth day she adds that there is no milk and she'll pick some up on her way back. She returns with milk and enough ingredients for a Full English. Serena wakes to the enticing smell of bacon, the sound of Bernie's laughter and Fleetwood Mac playing low on Bernie's phone, and the sight of Jason happily wolfing down a sausage sandwich.

 

She doesn't get past the kitchen doorway, before stepping back and turning away. Bernie dashes after her, finds her sitting on the sofa, staring into space blankly.

 

A little while later Bernie has to change her tear-stained shirt. Uses it in fact to waft under the smoke alarm shortly after the bacon burns, and she rushes to the kitchen, muttering a string of expletives not quite under her breath. She throws the saucepan in the sink, none too gently. It's ruined anyway. She'll buy Serena a new one. It can be replaced that very day.

 

Regardless, she scrubs and scrubs at it, knowing it can't be salvaged.

 

One tear-stained shirt, one ruined saucepan and one heartbroken confession is the result of Bernice Wolfe completely misreading the situation when she sits down next to Serena on the sofa, not too close by her side, but also not too far away.

 

"I shouldn't have – sorry, I didn't think, we've hardly – you wanted me to go and I wouldn't leave, and now I'm commandeering your kitchen and –"

 

"And filling my fridge and using all my things and feeding my nephew. _Oh_ , you're making yourself right at home." Serena doesn't raise her eyes from the blank TV screen to glance once at Bernie, but her hands rub together agitatedly in her lap. No matter how hard she searches Bernie can't find one echo of true annoyance in Serena's tone. There's no fire in it, no force. It's almost as lifeless as the switched off TV Serena eyes focus intensely on, even as she blinks back tears.

 

Serena isn't angry at her, Bernie realises. That would be, at any rate, something she could hope to fix. Something within her control to put right. But as Bernie waits silently for Serena to continue, the feeling that what Serena's going to tell isn't something that can be fixed creeps over Bernie. That it's inoperable as . . .The thought would devastate her anew, if she allowed it to, if sobs didn't rapidly rack Serena's body and Bernie accepts that there is nothing she can do to stop them. She can do nothing but stay close to Serena so she doesn't have to weather it alone.

 

She wants to tell Serena that there is no need for her to furiously try to wipe away the tears streaming her cheeks away, or pretend that every word she murmurs next isn't a battle she struggles to fight. But the words don't form. Silence is the only thing she can offer as she listens to Serena.

 

"I've always thought that self-pity is one of the worst traits a person can have. After Edward and I divorced I hated how he wallowed, how he . . . " Serena knows she is rambling, desperately trying to run away from what she needs to explain. "Chin up, back straight, solider on is what I was taught as a child. And I've tried – I thought I could just carry like normal – I wanted normal. I wanted us to be normal. I wanted you cooking breakfast and using my things and laughing with Jason and making yourself at home."

 

"But?" Bernie softly prompts when Serena trails off.

 

"I didn't realise how hard it would be to know – to act normal, and know that it's just an illusion. Seeing you just, I saw everything I've ever wanted. Right in front of me. And it's not mine, is it? I can't keep it."

 

Bernie gently tilts Serena's chin so that she can look into her eyes.

 

"You have me. I'm right here, Serena. I'm not going anywhere." Bernie wraps her arms around Serena and pulls her close. Serena gives up trying to fight the tears, and sinks into Bernie's embrace, burying her face in Bernie's neck. This time it is Bernie who looks into the distance, eyes unfocused, unable to settle on anything ahead of her.

 

Tears blur her eyes, quiver on her lashes.

 

"I'm yours," she says. It is the only certainty she can give. It is the only thing she can say that isn't false hope or a half-baked reassurance. It's the truth.

 

-

 

Later that night they lie face to face and Bernie watches Serena fall asleep. It's only eight o'clock at night, but Serena tires easily.

 

Bernie stays awake for hours, listening to the steady sound of Serena's breathing. Bernie's so used to it by now she almost doesn't smell Serena's perfume. It is the exact one, sweet and floral, Bernie can't bring herself to wash from Serena's pillowcase two months later.

 

She manages four hours of sleep, waking at half five ike usual. Waits for Serena to wake.

 

The thought of fighting to get more sleep, or admitting defeat and getting up from the bed never crosses her mind.

 

She would do it anyway, just to stay close to Serena and breathe her in, Bernie knows. Each morning she would go to dress, but look back at Serena and find it more and more difficult to resist climbing back in bed, until one day she would forget the run completely. It would be eventual, a natural process, but nothing about what they're facing is eventual. So that morning, studying her lover’s face, the soft arch of her brows, the small, fine lines at her eyes, the slight curve of the middle of her upper lip, the dimple in her chin, Bernie decides there and then.

 

She stays close.

 

Never again does she go for a run.

 

5.

 

It's the graveyard shift at Holby.

 

The hospital is as quiet as it ever becomes. The beep of machines, the occasional creak of doors, the footfalls of passing staff.

 

Bernie's used to them, and the noises sink into the background, subdued as if she's immersed in water. Reality is distorted.

 

She does her best to concentrate on anything but her surroundings, but the chair she sits is characteristically hard and uncomfortable, and everywhere she looks is unescapably white, clinical and cold even in the dim lighting of the ward. She walks these wards every day, and never before have they seemed so alien.

 

Hunched beside Serena's bedside, her hand curled around Serena's limp one, Bernie hasn't moved an inch for two hours, not since the red phone rang. She leapt to her feet at the sight of Raf and Fletch wheeling a critical patient into theatre, eager to do something, something worthwhile, something to concentrate her mind, to distract it. She wanted, she needed to feel useful. She was a trauma surgeon after all, and there was a trauma patient that needed her help.

 

Not that anyone on AAU thought so. Not that anyone with sense would either.

 

She's in not fit state of mind to operate. Of course, they don't say that.

 

They say things like _you're on leave_ or _I don't think that's a good idea_ or _it's been a long couple of days, you should get some rest instead_. That patient does need her, but there's someone who needs her more. So she stayed here, stayed useless, and Fletch finds her in the exact same spot when he finishes in theatre.

 

"You should get some sleep. You've been here hours."

 

"Tried that," Bernie rubs her eyes with the palms of her hands, "no luck."

 

"Maybe you need a bed first for the whole thing to work properly."

 

"Cheeky," Bernie is too tired to cast much more than a small smile in Fletch's direction and her admonition is little more than a whisper. "No, no. I'm not leaving her."

 

"If she was awake you know she'd tell you to go home. That you're no use to anyone when – "

 

Bernie's laugh cuts up the silence of the word, sharp and loud. Painfully inappropriate, but she can't stop it. The laughter rumbles deep from inside her chest and breaks in rapid peels. It's automatic, instinctive. It's the only response she could have. It's like gasping for air after coming up from water, having been under too long.

 

But it soon slows down and the heaves of her chest become deeper and deeper. When she speaks her voice is thick with all the emotions she has suppressed that day. They are finally breaking the surface and flooding out.

 

"When my marriage went to pot – along with most of my life as I knew it – I always had one thing to hold on. I was good at my job. Very good. One of the best trauma surgeons in the country. But all those years of study, all those years of experience, all that army training, and for what? I'm a surgeon, my job's to fix people," Bernie looks up at the ceiling, "and I can't even save the woman I love." Bernie rubs the ridge of her nose between her finger and thumb, squeezes her eyes shut. "Sorry," Bernie says, suddenly aware she is acting like she is the first person on earth to have lost someone close to them.

 

"How about we go and grab a drink in Pulses?" When Bernie's eyes flicker back to Serena, Fletch adds that they'll be five minutes, tops. Bernie acquiesces. At the very last her legs could to with a good stretch.

 

Coffee in hand they stand outside the doors of Holby. "After my wife died I felt completely out my depth, completely lost. And that feeling didn't go away overnight. Even though I had, I have four beautiful children, but you learn to live with it."

 

"Learn to focus on what you still have and not what you've lost," Bernie muses, "I should know, I'm ex-army for goodness's sake. You move on or you get left behind. Trouble is . . .  where to?"

 

"You're thinking of leaving?"

 

"I don't know how I could stay. Seeing this place day in, day out, going in our office and thinking she'll be there."

 

"Have you to talked to Hanseen about transferring?"

 

Bernie shakes her head. "I stayed in England to save my marriage, then to try to fix things with my kids. No matter how old they are they still need me. But you said it yourself I'm no good to anyone like this. At least, not here."

 

"You mean you're going back to the army?

 

"If they'll have me . . . yes." Bernie eyes fall to the floor, almost in shame.

 

"Does Serena -" Fletch's pager bleeps. "Sorry. Got to shoot."

 

Bernie gives an understanding nod as he dashes inside, turning back to warn her. "And don't think of trying to sneak into theatre to help."

 

"Trust me, I'm just too tired to pull that one again."

 

"Good," Fletch calls back, "Oh, and get some proper shut-eye, eh?"

 

Bernie gives a non-committal murmur, before tipping her almost empty coffee cub into a nearby bin and heading straight back to Serena's bedside. She drank the coffee so fast she burnt her tongue and she runs it against the back of her teeth. When she goes to eat next it'll hurt like a bitch, but for now it just tingles strangely, her mind having not fully registered the damage just yet. A she sags back into the chair she vacated a mere seven minutes ago, she bites down on it gently, lets it go. Hisses out a breath.

 

"Once a coward, always a coward, hey? Bernie Wolfe, the big macho army medic who's just going to flee. Who's just going to run back to the army and bury her head in the sand." Bernie takes Serena's hand in hers. Tracing her thumb over Serena's soft skin, Bernie lets out a shaky sigh.

 

"Your bravery's putting me to shame."

 

-

 

Serena wakes at half-four in the morning, groggy. On the best of days, she would be irritable at waking at such an ungodly hour. And she's had her bouts of bad-temper these past weeks. Snapped at Jason. Snapped at Bernie. Snapped at any person who unfortunately crossed her past. Anything and everything sets her on edge. Rattles her. Scrapes at her nerves. One moment everything is in sharp, piercing clarity, too loud, too bright. Over-powering. The next moment everything's out of focus, behind a smudged camera lens. The lens cracks and the world splinters into a tiny thousand pieces, a revolving kaleidoscope of colour and sound. Everything spirals and drifts away from her grasp.

 

Strangers take a step back, perplexed and at a loss. Jason gets frustrated. The more he repeats his questions the more they don't make sense. Fletch or Morveen or Raf, anyone who works at Holby, waits patiently for her return – and even if she would probably respond to anyone in her care with a similar gentle, watchful eye – she can't help feeling like they're treating her like a child. Like she needs special care and attention. But she's not crazy or idiotic. She's just dying.

 

Sometimes the world spins so fast under her feet that it knocks the breath out of her. At once the room around her is both vast and never-ending, bare and emptying-out. All the surfaces, all the details, all the people fade out and she's left alone. Stranded.

 

The graze of Bernie's fingertips on her arm, Bernie's gentle utterance of her name or Bernie's hand slipping into hers helps to pull her back to reality. Ground her there.

 

Serena lies back in the hospital bed and tries, for the hundredth time, not to focus on the foreign feel of the gown against her skin or the mattress against her back. She will _not_ go all maudlin and wallow. She will not let herself.

 

It's just that these past few days she's had to resist the growing urge to throw off the bed-covers, steal whatever clothes there are to hand – she's eyed up the coat Bernie's left constantly by her side several times – and sneak out of the hospital and step outside into the bracing, icy winter air. Maybe sob, maybe scream. Maybe not.

 

Some visions also include her downing bottle after bottle of wine inexplicably sourced, or at the very least a cigarette at her lips even though she hasn't smoked in years.

 

 _Get a grip_ , she scolds herself. What had she told Bernie yesterday? That she knew thinking about how unfair it was _wasn't_ going to change the cold, hard medical evidence. You linger too much on something you leave too much of yourself behind in the past and not enough of yourself to fight on ahead in the future.

 

Serena's mood softens considerably when her eyes flit to the left of her and find Bernie slouched in a far more uncomfortable position in the chair opposite Serena, her pale-pink trench coat used as a makeshift blanket. Bernie's fringe sticks up slightly and circles far too dark even for a surgeon's weigh under her eyes. Ever the light sleeper some part of Bernie senses she is being watched and she begins to stir. Through heavy-lidded eyes Bernie regards Serena, yawning sleepily.

 

Serena raises an eyebrow. "I thought we agreed you weren't going to stay the night. That there was no point in the both of us –“

 

"We did," Bernie agrees, "but . . ." She shrugs.

 

Serena tuts. "You promised me you'd take care of yourself. How much sleep have you had? _Honestly."_

 

"Couple of hours."

 

"You need some decent rest."

 

"That's what Fletch said. Advised I might need a proper bed first."

 

"Did he? Well, it's not much," Serena pats the mattress next to her, "but it'll do."

 

Bernie glances at her watch. "It's five in the morning. People are going to start their shifts. The wards are going to get busy."

 

"So?"

 

"You're not bothered that . . ."

 

"We could get caught in bed together? " Serena almost drawls the phrase, and Bernie knows she picked the turn of it on purpose. "However mutinous it's been lately this is still my life and I was rather under the impression I should live it how I want to. Stuff what other's think."

 

"I knew you were a rebel at heart." Without any further hesitance Bernie springs to her feet, flings her coat on the back of the chair and moves around to climb into the bed.

 

"Learnt from the best," Serena counters, shifting over to make room – as much as she can – for Bernie. To stop herself from falling off the side of the bed Bernie has to curl up close against Serena's back, entangling their legs together. Not that Bernie has any objection to clinging onto Serena.

 

"I didn't think it would be quite as much as a squeeze," Serena apologises.

 

"Well, it's certainly cosy." Unperturbed, Bernie wraps her around Serena and pulls her – if it is at all possible – closer.

 

"Maybe we should have top and tailed instead," Serena chuckles, "or done the literal on top of one another."

 

"You've a one track mind, Miss Campbell."

 

"What can I say? You're a bad influence on me."

 

Silence washes over them. Their light-hearted flirting has been a much-needed relief for the both of them, and neither of them realised until now how much they needed to feel the other's body pressed safely and snugly against their own.

 

A little while later, half hoping Bernie has dozed off so she can't respond, half hoping she hasn't so Serena can get an answer to the question that's being playing on her mind ever since she was admitted to Holby, Serena whispers Bernie's name.

 

"Yeah?"

 

So she's awake, Serena thinks. Serena clasps Bernie's hands, as much a means of stalling her words as for physical comfort. "Take me home."

 

"You know they won't discharge –" Bernie's mouth rushes ahead of her mind, and when the true meaning of Serena's request hits her, it knocks the breath out of her. It's too soon to be thinking of things like that, she thinks. Too soon to face up to reality. To questions of practicality and last wishes.

 

But for Serena's it's not.

 

“Take me home, darling. I want to go home," Serena says, voice quiet but unwavering, unlike Bernie's trembling one when she answers her with a simple, soft "Okay."

 

-

 

The last time isn't a last time at all.

 

They're in bed together, Serena sitting between Bernie's legs, back pressed up against her front.

 

Serena looks down at their entwined hands. "We never had a rematch."

 

Confusion creases Bernie's brow. "Sorry?"

 

"The man with a tap stuck up an unfortunate part of his anatomy," Serena elaborates, "the arm wrestle. You let me win. We never had a rematch."

 

"No," Bernie agrees, "but as you once told Jason that, while we are equals, you've been at Holby longer, so it's already accepted that you have the more power."

 

Serena gasps. "Did I?"

 

"You did," Bernie chuckles. "And as I recall something about my hair. Bleached straw was it? Dragged through a hedge backwards?"

 

"Now you are telling fibs."

 

"Alright, alright. Maybe just the bleached straw." A smile dances on Bernie's lips. They both know Serena said nothing as remotely sharp.

 

"You have to admit though, my love, it can stick up frightfully in the morning. Especially after sex." After their first time Serena had woken momentarily wondering if a lion had pried Bernie out of her bed and settled beside her.

 

"Especially after you run your hands through it a dozen times or more."

 

"You mess up my lipstick. I mess up your hair. Fair's fair."

 

"Hardly," Bernie counters, grinning, "since most of your lipstick often happily relocates on to my face."

 

"Ah," Serena breathes out a small sigh, "the snags of lesbianism."

 

"It's nothing to joke about," Bernie reprimands. "I remember one time things got . . . heated in the office, but we were called away. Something urgent, I can't remember what. Not that urgent though for Fletch to ask me if you were okay, he said you looked flushed, out of sorts. Of course, I knew what he was getting at, but we still hadn't officially told anyone about us so I mumbled something about hardly seeing you all day. Wrong move. He said that Miss Campbell wouldn't be too pleased. I couldn't understand what he was on about, until he motioned to my mouth . . . your lipstick and asked whether I'd got another girl on the go. Mortified, I said there was no other girl. The cheeky sod just smiled and said that Raf owed him a tenner. He also told me, that from the moment I joined you all in AAU, that they all knew Serena Campbell was the only girl for me. And he was right. You were."

 

"Likewise. Just took us a long time to figure it out. But," Serena squeezes Bernie's hand, "I think we made up for it."

 

"For what?"

 

Serena breathes in and out before answering. Her gaze turns wistful and she is glad they are sitting like they are, glad Bernie can't see it. "Lost time," Serena murmurs and feels Bernie's hand clutch hers just that little tighter. Bernie's herself is glad that Serena can't see how her smile fades and her eyes haze over.

 

-

 

Bernie strains for her mobile on the bedside table. It's as cold and heavy as a block of ice. She must dial it.

 

She must tell people.

 

Just not yet. She freezes, phone in one hand, the other wrapped around Serena. Bernie's fingers trail absentmindedly over Serena's right arm, the fabric of her blouse is smooth against Bernie's fingertips. Soothing, almost. She feels soft hair brush her chin as she leans in and whispers.

 

_Hush now, my darling._

 

Bernie presses a kiss against the place where Serena's neck meets her shoulder. Her skin is cool against Bernie's lips. Hot tears well in Bernie's eyes and sting her cheeks.

 

Her throat constricts, painfully tight. For a moment she can't swallow. She can't breathe. Something as hard as a marble is stuck in her windpipe. But she chokes it back. Her breathes break, ragged. She tastes salt on her lips.

 

Her voice cracks. _Hush._

 

Her arms tighten around Serena's waist, until there is no space between them, until they are moulded together. Serena's head rests against Bernie's collarbone. Bernie remains completely still, leant back against the wall so as to support her. The bedstead digs in her back and a painful twinge runs down her spine. Still, she remains holding Serena in her arms.

 

Tears spilling from her eyes Bernie looks ahead and sees their blurry reflection in the mirror on the vanity dresser opposite them. She doesn't need to see it clearly. She knows Serena's eyes have fluttered her shut, that no hard lines of frustration or stress or pain are etched on her face, that her expression is as smooth as water.

 

Peaceful.

 

Almost as if she was asleep.


End file.
